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1.   smoke above the burning bush 2.   archnemesis of summer night 3.   first son of soil 4.   coal awaiting spark & wind 5.   guilty until proven dead 6.   oil heavy starlight 7.   monster until proven ghost 8.   gone 9.   phoenix who forgets to un-ash 10. going, going, gone 11. gods of shovels & black veils 12. what once passed for kindling 13. fireworks at dawn 14. brilliant, shadow hued coral 15. (I thought to leave this blank but who am I to name us nothing?) 16. prayer who learned to bite & sprint 17. a mother’s joy & clutched breath

amaryllis comes in many flavors snow sometimes slants when will politics make improvements? strawberry amaryllis walks right in snarling at snowfall saying flowers don’t abuse women female rabbi demands ancient answers untranslatable tablets found there’s more knowledge in flowers aren’t all rabbis ancient females snow’s setting in untranslatable strawberry soufflés, first course ancient untranslatable second course arrives edible flowers abound distant whale sounds sing loudly singing memories of the future they thought so singing, singing, never stopping singing echo above sea level roads people ponder protest extreme weather patterns manifest warnings swim swam have swum under and in soufflés until willows swill scotch seltzers no tree left behind pleas a branch fell right into the money jar no money have I none neither do you so together we’ll be bereft piles of words mound high counting moon phases feathers flew across our minds consult the feather field guide mostly about toucans and birthdays and cookie monsters we live in the country they wonder why the thin place is nearby it’s a wordy country here full of vegetables each word is a pea lots of potatoes with eyes carrots without tops one frozen leek left behind carrots have eyes too, y’know you can sit on a mushroom, never ginger some folks sit on rocks large, smooth, flat and shakers made fine furniture some rocks start to shake like a quaker I’ve never dated a dentist dating a dentist really bites tooth-growing oysters what a very weird universe s is a yellow letter in my synesthesia I mean my synesthesia scheme can you hear sunrays? see trumpet calls? taste the shape of words? if you spell synesthesia with an a(synaesthesia) everything changes because a is red synesthetes come in many colors snow sometimes slants when will untranslatable make improvements? if you stick with me what everything does will be the backwards opposite improvements make untranslatable demand flowers hear, see, taste everything will make sense again you’ve got another thing coming I see people nothing will ever make sense nonsense to making sense again the mysterious mind memories within time plus space do you know the future will be there? time might go backwards, sir if only pleasure were limitless beyond the mind a tiny speck of sand if only you knew how limitless pleasures can be like little engine dresses yes the small pleasures roar like mighty engines here sometimes they are jets you mean nuclear jet engines like the speedway’s oh save us and the trees more trees will save us air moves through we hear maple sap drop trees taught us to breathe sap rises up we see windy voices say nothing is really real tonight the wind laughs oysters jump on our plates

Although the wind blows terribly here, the moonlight also leaks between the roof planks of this ruined house.

There was a church in Umbria, Little Portion, Already old eight hundred years ago. It was abandoned and in disrepair But it was called St. Mary of the Angels For it was known to be the haunt of angels, Often at night the country people Could hear them singing there. What was it like, to listen to the angels, To hear those mountain-fresh, those simple voices Poured out on the bare stones of Little Portion In hymns of joy? No one has told us. Perhaps it needs another language That we have still to learn, An altogether different language.

What if we got outside ourselves and there really was an outside out there, not just our insides turned inside out? What if there really were a you beyond me, not just the waves off my own fire, like those waves off the backyard grill you can see the next yard through, though not well -- just enough to know that off to the right belongs to someone else, not you. What if, when we said I love you, there were a you to love as there is a yard beyond to walk past the grill and get to? To endure the endless walk through the self, knowing through a bond that has no basis (for ourselves are all we know) is altruism: not giving, but coming to know someone is there through the wavy vision of the self's heat, love become a decision.

All night vigil. My two-and-a-half-year-old boy and his 10-month-old sister lay on the same bed, facing opposite ends; their feet touching. They looked soft, peaceful, bundled there in strands of blankets. I brushed away roaches that meandered across their faces, but not even that could wake them. Outside, the dark cover of night tore as daybreak bloomed like a rose on a stem of thorns. I sat down on the backsteps, gazing across the yellowed yard. A 1954 Chevy Bel-Air stared back. It was my favorite possession. I hated it just then. It didn’t start when I tried to get it going earlier that night. It had a bad solenoid. I held a 12-gauge shotgun across my lap. I expected trouble from the Paragons gang of the west Lynwood barrio. Somebody said I dove the car that dudes from Colonia Watts used to shoot up the Paragons’ neighborhood. But I got more than trouble that night. My wife had left around 10 p.m. to take a friend of mine home. She didn’t come back. I wanted to kill somebody. At moments, it had nothing to do with the Paragons. It had to do with a woman I loved. But who to kill? Not her– sweet allure wrapped in a black skirt. I’d kill myself first. Kill me first? But she was the one who quit! Kill her? No, think man! I was hurt, angry. . . but to kill her? To kill a Paragon? To kill anybody? I went into the house and put the gun away. Later that morning, my wife came for her things: some clothes, the babies. . . their toys. A radio, broken TV, and some dishes remained. I didn’t stop her. There was nothing to say that my face didn’t explain already. Nothing to do. . . but run. So I drove the long haul to Downey and parked near an enclosed area alongside the Los Angeles River. I got out of the car, climbed over the fence and stumbled down the slopes. A small line of water rippled in the middle. On rainy days this place flooded and flowed, but most of the time it was dry with dumped garbage and dismembered furniture. Since a child, the river and its veins of canals were places for me to think. Places to heal. Once on the river’s bed, I began to cleanse. I ran. I ran into the mist of morning, carrying the heat of emotion through the sun’s rays; I ran past the factories that lay smack in the middle of somebody’s backyard. I ran past alleys with overturned trashcans and mounds of tires. Debris lay underfoot. Overgrown weeds scraped my legs as I streamed past; recalling the song of bullets that whirred in the wind. I ran across bridges, beneath overhead passes, and then back alongside the infested walls of the concrete river; splashing rainwater as I threaded, my heels colliding against the pavement. So much energy propelled my legs and, just like the river, it went on for miles. When all was gone, the concrete river was always there and me, always running.

This time I came to the starting place with my best running shoes, and pure speed held back for the finish, came with only love of the clock and the underfooting and the other runners. Each of us would be testing excellence and endurance in the other, though in the past I’d often veer off to follow some feral distraction down a side path, allowing myself to pursue something odd or beautiful, becoming acquainted with a few of the ways not to blame myself for failing to succeed. I had come to believe what’s beautiful had more to do with daring to take yourself seriously, to stay the course, whatever the course might be. The person in front seemed ready to fade, his long, graceful stride shortening as I came up along his side. I was sure now I’d at least exceed my best time. But the man with the famous final kick already had begun his move.Beautiful, I heard a spectator say, as if something inevitable about to come from nowhere was again on its way.

Bob Dahlquist is an artist whose work I first noticed in New York City's Bryant Park, where I saw staring down at me an imaginative logo for a sandwich shop. The logo demonstrated Dahlquist's grasp of what I call the printer's fist—an understanding of the visual and intellectual significance of typographic characters. His "alwaysendeavor" replicates the look of old-fashioned office signs etched into translucent glass doors, but in this case we see the text from both sides at once, and we must pull apart the strands of overlapping text to reconstitute the meaning.—Geof Huth More About Visual Poetry >>

An hendy hap ichabbe yhent; Ichot, from hevene it is me sent; From alle wymmen mi loue is lent, And lyght on Alysoun. Bytuene Mersh and Averil, When spray biginneth to springe, The lutel foul hath hire wyl On hyre lud to synge. Ich libbe in love longinge For semlokest of alle thinge. He may me blisse bringe; Icham in hire baundoun. On heu hire her is fayr ynoh, Hire browe broune, hire eye blake; With lossum chere he on me loh; With middel smal, and wel ymake. Bote he me wolle to hire take, Forte buen hire owen make, Longe to lyven ichulle forsake, And feye fallen adoun. Nihtes when y wende and wake, Forthi myn wonges waxeth won; Levedi, al for thine sake Longinge is ylent me on. In world nis non so wyter mon, That al hire bounté telle con. Hire swyre is whittore then the swon, And feyrest may in toune. Icham for wowyng al forwake, Wery so water in wore. Lest eny reve me my make, Ychabbe y-yerned yore. Betere is tholien whyle sore Then mournen evermore. Geynest under gore, Herkne to my roun.

Am I lovely? Of course! Breathlessly I taste the subtle compliment of a handmade caress. Chop me into tiny bits, caress and tame my soul, that godly swallow you love to no end.